My Messy Haired Angel
by Theophaneia
Summary: L/J: Despite his appearance, I knew he was my angel, because he had helped me more than anybody else could. I knew it; he knew it. My angel was, and would always be, that little boy with messy, black hair, crooked glasses, a lopsided grin, and hazel eyes.


**My Messy-Haired Angel**

My life was difficult. Huge obstacles were thrown at me throughout my entire life. What, I'm a witch? Oh, we have money problems? Is that my sister who hates me so much? Every single obstacle compelled me to believe I was strong. I mean, why force such complicated difficulties on a girl who couldn't handle it all?

Then again, I also thought otherwise. Maybe somewhere out there, the fates were trying to see how many "damn hurdles it took for me to finally crack." Maybe this was just how life operated—unfairly. Maybe I didn't want to find out how many damn hurdles it really took. Maybe that was why I had to put my guard up all the time.

Out of all my memories, I could only remember once, years ago, when I had let my guard down. I felt vulnerable, so vulnerable it scared me. Until then, and after the incident, I led myself to believe I had to be strong wherever I went, to whomever I talked to, doing whatever I did. All I knew was that I could never let myself feel small and helpless.

That one incident I couldn't stop. All of my pent up emotions exploded—I guess I'd kept it in the bottle for too long. Every single time I was abused with an insult and didn't react, every time I kept myself up and strong, never allowing myself to lose control and cry, every moment I just stood there finally leaked out of my ears in a desperately unwelcome outburst. I swear I was losing control. And I was losing control fast.

I had to run, to get away from what was forcing such undesirable traits out of me. I ran out the front door and I never looked back. Not that I didn't want to see whomever it was standing behind me, but because I didn't want them to see my tears. Tears meant that I broke, that my strong upstanding cracked, and I couldn't have everyone seeing that.

I ran and I ran. What seemed to be at least one whole antagonizing hour ended up being just a few minutes. My face was wet and I tasted salt. It all seemed a bit new to me; I'd taught myself not to cry when I was so young.

After forcing my feet to move one foot after the other, I found myself staring at the neighborhood park. It was pretty beat up to say the least, but I always found comfort in sitting on the swing. It gave me time to cool down, to think.

I took my usual seat on the right swing. I figured since I'm on the _right_ swing, I've got to be able to do something right… right?

Time passed in a daze. I stuck by my belief that the sun set a whole lot quicker that day, because the next time I raised my head, it was dark. My first instinct was that I had to get home before my parents got worried, but then I quickly brushed that thought away. Why would my parents worry about me, especially after saying what they did? They never really cared that much. Come to think of it, they loved my older sister—I'm forced to call her that—much more than they did me.

All I ever had was my family and I wished desperately that they _were_ what I truly just called them—a family. However, since families were supposed to love and care for one another, it wouldn't be entirely correct to say they've been a family to me. All I wanted then was someone to lean on, someone to comfort me, someone to hold me. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently, it wasn't, because just five minutes after, I received my angel. Despite his appearance, I knew he was my angel, because he had helped me more than anybody else could. I knew it; he knew it. My angel was, and would always be, that little boy with messy, black hair, crooked glasses, a lopsided grin, and hazel eyes.

He had found me sitting alone, and I guess he knew I needed someone to talk to, because he sat on the swing to my left and introduced himself, so that we'd be acquainted. I only figured it was because he couldn't talk to strangers, just as I had been forbidden to do. If we introduced ourselves and became friends, we'd no longer be strangers.

"Hi." I didn't respond. He was still a stranger, after all.

"My name's James…" he continued to speak.

"I'm Lily," I replied slowly with my name, although he never asked, and added a tiny sniffle afterwards, to emphasize my obvious distraught condition.

"What's wrong?"

"Erm, I don't know if you're the right person to tell," I told him, honestly. How was I supposed to confess about all of my childhood troubles to a boy I'd just met?

"Well, I _am_ the only person around for you to talk to. I just figured I'd make it easier for you by coming and asking you myself," James said brusquely, with an expectant look about his face. What he said was actually true; not many kids were interested in being my friend at school, so I had nobody else to talk to. However, looking at his expression, I almost instantly became annoyed.

"If you're going to act so insensitive, then go away. I have enough to deal with," I snapped. Even at the age of ten, I could scare people away with my sharp words.

His face softened, if only for a couple of seconds.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to get you mad. I just wanted to help; you looked like you needed some." He sounded guilty enough.

"It's okay," I replied. After a while I added, "I used to think family _had_ to love you, that they were forced to."

"What makes you think they don't? I know some of my parents' friends and they have families. It seems like they really love their children," James said, actually contemplating my comment. If only I could explain to him about my family, about my parents. If only he'd understand, I thought.

"Mine don't," I said, bitterly.

"What? How do you know?" He was obviously perplexed at what I had said.

"If my parents loved me, they wouldn't keep telling me I'm the problem in our house, that I'm not as _good_ as Petunia is. They wouldn't make me feel bad all the time. They're always so inconsiderate to me. I don't understand why, because they're always really nice to Petunia. I feel like I'm the unwanted kid. They even told me that once… they didn't want me around. I only brought more work, more cooking, more everything, and they didn't want to have to deal with all that. Tonight… they told me I wasn't worth any of their time. I never thought they'd say anything like that," I expressed everything I had wanted to say, and to an almost stranger. I was finally relieved of carrying this horrible weight alone. I knew I did just what I needed. I talked to someone and he listened.

After years of being strong, I found myself crying a lot that day. My small hands held on to the rusted metal chains holding both the swing and me off the ground with a tight grip. I bowed my head so he wouldn't see my tears. I had to keep up my reputation. My parents would have found my "unnecessary" tears as more of a nuisance, and I couldn't have had that.

"I…" he stuttered, "I wish I could help." Little did he know how much he helped that night. I didn't need anybody's pity or sympathy; that would only make me feel worse. I just needed someone to talk to. I told him of my problems that night. Now somebody knew. I wasn't the only one in the world anymore. His look had comforted me. It told me he was really concerned about me, as much as a ten-year old kid could be, anyway.

"You just did," I explained, quietly. "You listened to what I had to say. My parents never do that, and I can't count on my sister to let me speak to her. Thanks… I guess."

"No problem." James looked slightly relieved. As I found out years later, he thought nobody should have to live with a family such as my own, but being so young, he didn't want to get too involved. "I'm glad I could help."

"You know," I commented, "I actually feel a whole lot better than before. I never figured a single conversation could do that."

"Well, I'm glad I was the one to help," James replied. He looked up at my eyes and I looked back. I could tell he was being completely truthful. "Lily," he added, "things will get better. They have to. You can't always live with parents who don't care about you. I know I couldn't." He looked entirely horrified at the prospect of his parents not loving him, which made me giggle a bit.

"What's so funny?" James asked, looking at my face with confusion written all over his.

"Nothing… nothing." I assured him, or rather myself. It would be rather rude to laugh at someone. As the street lamps flashed on, I added, "It's getting pretty late."

"Yeah…" James said, as he looked at the same streetlamp I was staring at. I didn't reply, and soon, we fell into a comfortable silence. I had enjoyed this, mainly because I didn't usually have any _comfortable_ silences while I was around my family.

The silence ended early, to my disappointment. However, the sky was darkening at an unusually quick pace, and I knew I couldn't put off returning home any longer either.

"Well, I'd better get going then. I live kind of far from here."

I nodded my head, while looking him straight in the eye. It was strange. Although we had both just met, his eyes held a certain look that told me he truly cared about my situation, or perhaps me. Instantly, I felt irritated. How could he care about what happened to me already when my own parents didn't give a damn? The second after, I had begun to feel guilty. He was the only person who listened to me and I already grew irritated with him. I had a feeling I wouldn't be able to stay friends with him what with our distanced homes and really didn't want to push him away while he was near.

"See you around, James."

That was the last time I saw James that summer. I never knew, nor did I ever find out, the reason as to why he chose that park to visit. I really took to what he said that one meeting in the park, that things had to get better, and soon they did. I learned I was magical and that I wouldn't have to stay at home with my parents much longer. As usual, they didn't care what I chose, as long as it had nothing to do with bothering them. This meant I was free to leave.

The magical world gave me a renewed sense of hope that I could succeed in something, be someone special, have people who care be around me, and that I could make friends. More importantly, the magical world gave me hope that I would never be alone again.

On September 1, 1971, I made my way to King's Cross, nervous as I thought of how many people I'd know on the train—the answer was simple, zero. However, I was proven wrong, and I was glad of it. I crossed the barrier after learning how to find Platform 9 ¾ and immediately, I'd been too stunned to move. I stood in front of the barrier, completely oblivious to the scarlet train in front of me or to the hundreds of magical people boarding the train. I was staring at a face, an all too familiar face. Straight away, I recognized the familiar hair, stuck up in all directions, the familiar glasses that were moved slightly to the side, the familiar smile that, at once, received my smile in return, and the familiar hazel eyes staring straight to my emerald. Right then, I knew I'd made my first friend.

* * *

_A/N: This fic is not completely canon as you've read. It also may not be all that great, but give me a break, it's my first fanfic! I hope I wrote it well enough. Read and review, but don't kill me with your words, I beg of you! (:_


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